


Mean Time

by AvocadoMillennial



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Drama, F/M, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 15:39:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15052415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvocadoMillennial/pseuds/AvocadoMillennial
Summary: Set after Lies My Parents Told Me. Spike’s trigger is no longer working but the First Evil isn’t done with him or Buffy yet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the amazing OffYourBird for beta reading for me. 
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Spike slammed another shot of bourbon down his throat. It left a good burn on its way down, like the warmth from a good kill but without the associated guilt. The evening he’d been treated to had brought him close to the real thing: blood, screaming, death. He’d wanted to kill Robin Wood.

He suspected having a mystical bug shoved up into your brain in order to relive past psychological traumas and being burnt by a bunch of crosses in an avenging son’s garage would put anyone on edge. And if he couldn’t take his frustrations out on Wood then he was going to take the next best course of action: get pissed blind drunk and imagine dropping his attempted murderer into a vat of acid. Procuring a decent amount of acid for the job would be tricky — the difficulty of that particular revenge fantasy was a deterrent. Snapping the bloke’s neck, well, that was easily done and only required violence, not the premeditation of torture; he was never as ambitious as some with torture. Hell, as much as he hated Angel and he’d wanted the gem of Amara back, he’d subcontracted his torturing out to a vamp named Marcus. He’d never been able to compete with Angelus’s greater sadistic nature, no matter how much Drusilla had wanted him to. He should call the old git for some pointers now.

Spike sighed. That he was considering calling Angel for advice on anything was a clear sign he needed to stop drinking, or possibly down a few more shots of something stronger.

“Another,” Spike demanded. He inclined his head at the demon bartender in front of him and dangled his empty glass in his spiney face. 

“You sure that’s the best idea, Spike?” the barkeeper asked, voice trembling. The demon’s eyes flickered as he looked for an escape route or some aid from a patron — no luck there.

A dark, familiar part of Spike took pleasure in the creature’s visible fear, but he couldn’t tell, for the death of him, if it was the demon or the soul feeding off the power he held over the situation. He should compare notes with Angel to discern the motivations of certain impulses.

“Wouldn’t be asking for another if I didn’t think I could handle it, now would I?” Spike snapped. That particular demand was all vampire. His soul reeled back as it watched his black-tipped fingers throw some wrinkled bills at the bartender. It was bad mannered, Anne Pratt had not raised him to behave that way towards others. The demonic part of him rolled his eyes. The bartender eyed him strangely before scooping up the cash and promptly sliding over a bottle of whiskey.

Spike felt another twinge of regret regarding the money, which was mostly William chiming in. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it could have gone towards grocery bills for the ever-expanding Summer’s household. It wasn’t like he could get a job to help out, especially with the extra apocalyptic vibes driving Sunnydale businesses away. Maybe he could turn his hand to poker again, but the kittenless kind because they were too bloody adorable and definitely off the menu. He hadn’t intended it, but he’d shamed Clem into a feline-free diet. Clem insisted he’d been planning to cut down on cats anyway, since he needed to lower his cholesterol. 

Spike picked up on whispers behind him. There was the soft sibilance of slayer and Spike slicing across the smoked-filled bar and into his ears. He didn’t like being the product of gossip, especially when it regarded his love life or lack thereof. At least this time poetry wasn’t involved, thanks to small mercies.

Spike lent his weight onto the back legs of his stool; it wobbled a little. It was down to bad craftsmanship, that was — or an uneven floor. Nothing to do with him.

“If any you lot got something to say, you better bloody well say it to my face!” Spike called out. He tipped another shot into his mouth and savoured the surrounding silence. “Yeah, I thought as much.”

He patted down his duster pockets looking for a cigarette — no success. That couldn’t be right, he’d had a full pack in there that morning. He must have left it in Buffy’s basement on his cot right before he tossed it, bedding an all, at his poor Niblet’s noggin — no, not his. She was still distant with him, with good reason, but he missed her loyal, fierce friendship. Last summer he’d gotten his soul for Buffy, but the one before he’d kept bloody living for Dawn — because damn, the girl had more taken from her than anyone he’d ever known. Would she have even cared if he’d been dusted tonight?

Giles wouldn’t have lost sleep over it. In fact, Spike was certain old Rupert had been in on it, with him being new bestest pals with Wood and the little thing of the watcher completely hating Spike’s guts. Buffy hadn’t been on it, no uncertainty there. She believed in Spike, and if he needed putting down she’d be the one to deal him his death. For instance, if he went and offed Giles, she’d stake him dead.

Spike finished — whatever number drink he was on. The First Evil had definitely been involved for the Principal to know exactly what his trigger was. It’d failed, not been defeated. How exactly was the Big Bad going to screw with them next? Spike hated waiting and needed something to fight right about now. He turned towards the side booths and eyed a group of Fyarl demons. They’d do. He decided to save the one with the largest vocabulary for last; the first few he’d need to take down fast.

There was a tickling across the nape of Spike’s neck which kept him in place. Being able to sense the Slayer from a distance was a handy skill, especially when the First kept popping up looking like her, even mimicking her scent and heartbeat. The tingle was all Buffy, no replicating that. He felt it sharper when she walked through the doors and into the dingy bar.

The stool’s legs next to Spike scraped across the floor as Buffy sat beside him. He felt too anxious to look at her. If he turned towards her, she’d catch sight of the wounds on his face again. He didn’t want to end up squirming under her gentle touch as she checked his injuries — mostly; the slide of her fingertips on his skin would be electric, and the man’s and monster’s desires would align into an aching want he couldn’t express. There was also the possibility he’d see disappointment in her eyes. While Spike knew Buffy cared about him, he wasn’t sure of the depth of those feelings or how they compared to whatever had been going on between her and the Principal. What had it looked like from her perspective? Spike swaggering out of the garage where he’d left Wood crumpled, bleeding and barely conscious. Wood could have said anything to her about what happened. Wanker.

He waited, drumming out the tune of Waterloo Sunset on his thigh, as he couldn’t occupy his hands with a smoke or by sliding his hand against hers. He could see her out the corner of his eyes, a golden blur as she leaned forward. Buffy believes in you, you berk, one of his inner voices chided him. Look at her, you coward, said the other. 

“You gonna offer me a drink?” Buffy said, her voice playful but brittle like she might snap.

He finally turned towards her. The drinks in his system made him feel reckless — a feeling he’d missed. She was smiling but her eyes didn’t quite match. 

“Can I get another glass?” Spike asked the bartender. 

“Rain check. I’m kinda passed my drinking phrase because, while pre-iron age Buffy didn’t put an end to it, throwing up on my boots and yours and possibly Dawn’s… and several rugs,” she explained, wrinkling her nose in disgust — in no way cute, “kind of a watershed moment for booze fueled escapades.”

“Right shame that is,” he teased, raising an eyebrow and the turning towards the barkeeper. “An orange juice for my lady.”

She held her hand out towards the demon and shook her head no. “Your lady?” Buffy challenged but without the hostility that would have once been there.

“Sorry, figure of speech.” He ducked his head. The alcohol making his words looser. “How’d you find me?”

“It’s the closest demon bar from where I last saw you.” Buffy rolled her eyes affectionately. “It’s got liquor, potential for demon on demon violence… and possibly some onion based snacks.”

“I’m that predictable, am I?” he pouted before he swayed and placed his forehead against her shoulder. It stilled the room for a second.

“Sometimes,” Buffy laughed softly. “Then other times not so much with the obvious.” She patted his shoulder. “You just had a really bad day, and if there was a 24-hour frozen yogurt stand exclusively run by evil demons I could punch, I would be there drowning my sorrows. Or I’d be here first to drag you along with me because of the fighting and marshmallow toppings.”

“You got to watch out for those evil rainbow sprinkles, cause they can take out an eye,” he chuckled against her jacket.

“You’re drunk.” 

“A tad.”

“If tad means one drink away from crashing through the Sunnydale welcome sign, then yeah.” 

How’d she know about that? Spike straightened himself up and raised his scarred eyebrow.

“You told me about the sign destroyage last year-ish. We were both drunk; I’d yet to experience puking on footwear. I’d been having my own beyond suck day. You thought some vandalism might cheer me up.” Buffy grinned as if it was a fond recollection. It was odd seeing her almost nostalgic for something they’d shared before he’d gotten his soul. His demon was delighted at least.

“Sounds like some bollocks I’d come up with to try and help.”

“Yeah.” Her smile turned a fraction sadder. “I had to explain to you it was going to be more dangerous on a motorbike than it was in your car.” 

“I dimly remember, yeah.” Spike nodded and pressed his burnt cheek against the surface of the bar; it felt solid, cool and good against his wounds. “We should, you know. I can knick a car, and we can take down every bloody sign in the whole town.”

“Not happening.” Buffy snorted as if part of her would love to. She began to make soothing circles with her palm on his back until his muscles relaxed. It felt even better than the bar. “So, how are you really? And no macho crap.”

“Principal's the one that took a battering, love,” he said in a strained tone. 

“Spike...?”

He exhaled through his nose and sat up straighter. “Everything in my head was wonky, but that spell your watcher did on me opened my eyes to some stuff.”

Her hand covered his. Spike placed his other hand on top of hers and gave a quick squeeze.

“I didn’t know about their plan. I came as soon as—.”

“I know that, love.” He’d smelt her fear when she rushed towards him at Wood’s place. It was still there now but subtle. After all, as she said a few weeks before, she wasn’t ready for him not to be there. He still didn’t know how to take that admission from her. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “Besides, after everything, I know I’ve earned my death at your hands.”

“We’ve talked about this. I don’t want…” She struggled over her words before waving them away. “Things are different. And you, mister, are not getting out of this apocalypse that easy. So, no death by these hands or any others, ‘kay?”

“Fair enough,” Spike agreed. “I’m your end of the world bloke. Just need a little breathing space, metaphorically speaking, from Scooby Central. Gonna lie low for a while.” He felt her hand freeze under his and he stopped his caresses, but his other hand was still firmly under hers. “Need to wrap my brain around all this mess, but I’m safe now. Broke the First’s hold on me, so don’t fret.”

“But you’re coming back?” she asked with an uncertain look in her eyes. He always came back like a bad penny, didn’t she know that yet? Bastards always let her down — himself included. 

“You’re daft to think I could stay away. You could always come with?”

“I wish.” Buffy let out an exhausted sigh. She nudged her shoulder into his, making herself comfortable there. “How long are you planning to be gone?”

“Day or two. Just so I can calm down some. Not got my chip to reel me in.”

“I might be tempted to kill them myself.”

“My hero.” He smirked, holding a hand over his heart. She really was, but he’d never want her killing for him. 

“Take this.” She held her cell phone out towards him. “That way if I need you I can call or you can call me.”

“What if you need it?”

“I plan on stealing Giles’s phone.”

“Hope you make all those international phone calls count.” 

Buffy slid her phone into his duster pocket. She placed her hands on his shoulders, using the leverage to stand. Her eyes were warm as she looked into his. Then she was moving away. 

“Stay safe, Spike.” 

“Anything for you, Summers. No rooms full of crosses or caves with ultimate evils for me. But any unsuspecting signs I promise nothing. Going for those with all that I have.” 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she threw over her shoulder as she headed towards the exit.

 

******

 

Anya walked towards 1630 Revello Drive and back to the trenches full of annoying teenage girls. Dawn last year with her thrifty stealing hands and loud screaming telling everyone to get out was a pleasant memory in comparison. She’d managed to escape for a while.

It was a relief that she hadn’t given up her apartment. She’d managed to buy it outright because she’d made wise investment over the centuries. Hello, she’d done well off the printing press while it was still big, and bite-sized candy bars, though she’d never seen a good return from Zeppelins and Giga Pets. Plus, the low capital gains tax on long-term investments had helped. In the end, the whole thing would collapse and lead to an untenable class divided, which ironically would upend capitalism, but she’d do well while it lasted.

Anya’d left the Summers’s house bright and early to go pick up fresh clothes and a decent cup of coffee, not the cheap kind Buffy got. Anya hated the bargain-basement, freeze-dried, coffee-like substance. She was sure it had a high percentage of sawdust in it or something equally not coffee to bulk it up. Granted, it was a quick way to cut down on direct business costs during the manufacturing process, but would eventually erode your client base. Quality products were important. She really did miss the life of a shopkeeper. 

She fished around in her bag for her spare keys before she unlocked the door. Anya’d forgot her keys like once, and Buffy got testy when she’d been forced to break in. What else was she supposed to do? No one was answering their phones, so she panicked. By that point, one more broken window shouldn’t have mattered or even registered. At least the house was still in one piece, unlike the Magic Box. So no more broken glass, which was good because it would mean Xander wouldn’t have to fix it, parading around in his tool belt and shirtless which would lead to sexual tension, and they’d end up having sex, and then emotional turmoil. No, this last time was a one time thing — like the first time they slept together had meant to be. 

Anya pushed the front door gently closed with the sole of her shoe as she did a balancing act with her coffee and doughnuts. She’d already had the custard-filled one; she was good now but not a saint.

The house was silent. It was before nine, so all the girls and Andrew were still asleep. She’d seen Buffy before she left, but she’d been in one of her dramatic slayer moods and Anya was full on her quota of epic doom and gloom speeches for a while, so she had kept her mouth shut. But it was safe now. Buffy’s keys were missing from the usual spot.

As Anya was heading to the kitchen, the phone gave a shrill ring. She launched herself towards it, hoping to avoid the human locusts waking up and devouring all the precious pastries; there were a limited number of sprinkled ones.

“Hello?” Anya said, exhaling a huff of air.

“Oh, hi Anya,” Willow chirped back, ignoring Anya’s tone, which annoyed her because clearly ex-demons weren’t allowed off days. “Is Buffy around? I really need to talk to her.”

“She’s not here. She seemed kind of pissed off, so I didn’t ask her where she was going or for how long, or any other question designed to indicate concern.”

Anya took a quick sip of her cooling latte and waited for the pointless conversation she was being forced to participate in to end. This assimilating with humans thing kept on sucking.

“Any first string Scoobies about? Not that you’re not in that group.” Willow gave a short, embarrassed laugh as she backpedaled. “Just, there’s the us that have been here since the beginning and—”

“Nope only me,” Anya cut Willow off — she could do without the nervous babble. “The responsible adult that I am. Unless you count Andrew, which why would you?” She looked over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t materialized there. He’d soon be gearing up to give them all another lecture on the importance of his latest whiteboard contributions. She found that throwing his markers into the trash had helped momentarily until one of the potentials — probably Amanda — snitched on her. “Giles left last night. Xander left when I did. We didn’t live together because that’s all over with and we’ve certainly not shared any mutually satisfying orgasms recently because that would be confusing and I think it’s really inappropriate for you to bring up things like that with me, Willow.”

“Okay, right, sorry?” Willow soldiered on. “Well, I’ll be back by tonight but I just wanted to give you guys the heads up on something.”

“Well it’s about time you got back here. Who leaves in the middle of an apocalypse?”

“You’ve done that. Mayor turning into a giant snake?”

“Well you nearly destroyed the world last year. If you’d run away, then I might still have a livelihood.”

“Let’s just call it even, Anya.” Willow said.

“Fine, let’s do that.” Anya’s point was valid, but she was willing to be the bigger person, so she dropped it.

“Don’t worry. It’s good news, I’m bringing back some help with me.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Shit!” Anya yelled, startling Dawn out of her zombie-like shambling into the kitchen — the closest a zombie was going to come to the house these days. There had been an embargo on them entering the house since ‘98, which also resulted in the banning of shindigs and hootenannys. Sure, they had the numbers for such celebrations now, but there was too much of a boot camp feel and the unwelcoming vibe had gone on for weeks. Also, they were out of chips.

Dawn wondered if she’d done something to piss off Anya. Anya couldn’t know about the 25% off Food & Stuffs coupons Dawn had let expire, could she? Dawn’d even had a clandestine bonfire to destroy the evidence — which reminded her: she really needed to return Spike’s lighter to the basement before he noticed it was missing. It was borrowing not stealing. He’d probably stolen it anyway. Still, best not to let him know she had it after she’d threatened him with waking up on fire if he ever hurt Buffy again.

She yawned and scrubbed at her eyelids, hoping to unblurify her sight. The delicious aroma of coffee and fried sugar had lured her into a trap of Anya’s bad mood. Dawn avoided making eye contact with Anya; instead, she looked down at the fluffy dog slippers on her feet, which she now realized had a slight resemblance to bunnies. She turned her toes inwards to hide her mistake from Anya.

“I just wanted to get some cereal,” Dawn explained, crossing her arms across her middle. She’d decided to match aggression with aggression. It was probably lack of sleep and not the extra strong Hellmouth rumblings making her feel grouchy.

She ignored Anya, marched over to the kitchen cabinet and pulled down a box of bran flakes, which remained stoically unrattley, even when she waggled the container. There wasn’t a bite to eat. Damn Potential Slayers! And what kind of evil person put back an empty cereal box? It was probably the same person or persons who always ignored the overflowing trash can until Dawn gave in and took it out herself. She always ended up getting covered with gross trash slime when the cheap garbage bags split from being too full.

Dawn leaned against the kitchen sink, steadying herself. She still had a headache from when Spike, under a magical influence — he was always under some outside influence — had thrown his cot at her head. Dawn re-adjusted her makeshift bandage as it slipped down; she felt where a small bump was forming. At least she’d not been knocked unconscious.

Anya tossed the bag of donuts she was holding at Dawn; she fumbled the catch but managed to keep hold of them. Who needed slayer reflexes anyway? Well, her yesterday, because she’d been unable to dodge projectile furniture.

“Donuts do not make up for cursing at me,” Dawn pouted. She bit into one of the glazed donuts which had a cache of raspberry jelly at the center. “Okay, so you’re forgiven.”

Anya sighed and snatched her donuts back. “That wasn’t about you.”

Dawn reached across to the drying rack for what might have been the only clean mug left in existence. She poured herself a large coffee from the fresh-ish pot. Say what you want about Andrew — and she had extensively and often to his face — but he would do the dishes if you hassled him enough, and he made awesome coffee. Dawn suspected Andrew had a secret stash of high quality coffee hidden somewhere, but he’d claimed it was because he’d studied the ancient arts of baristing, though that was when he was still making up stories. He’d recently experimented by adding a dash of nutmeg — an idea he’d gotten from _Gilmore Girls._  He’d also attempted to use the show to bond with Spike, and it almost worked until they got into an ugly shipper war that ended with Spike ranting that: Jess was a bloody poser because who in their right mind thought _On the Road_ was a great work of literature? Dawn stayed out of it.

“So, who are you mad at?” Dawn asked, hopping up on a stool and then immediately regretting it — hopping was probably a bad choice right now. “Kennedy? If it is, I have a few things to add. Or Molly — not an expert, but pretty sure some of her accent is put on.”

“It does have a Dick Van Dykesque quality to it — I cursed him with that accent.” Anya nodded smugly. “But I’m not angry with them. I mean objectively, they're both annoying, though all humans are.” Anya shrugged her shoulders. “Willow’s on her way back with Wesley and Faith. Faith who's been in prison without men for years; so she’s obviously going to turn to Xander with them having been with all the sex before. And her other options being limited, what with Spike being chaste now, Giles’s ‘professional boundaries’ and Andrew being Andrew.”

“All the sex?” Dawn asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Fine, all the once,” Anya admitted. “See, this is how you’re specifically annoying: correcting my verbal exaggerations when I’m clearly in pain.”

“Sorry, Anya,” Dawn apologized. “What did Buffy say about Faith coming back?”

“Nothing. Buffy doesn’t know yet. She went out bright and early,” Anya said before adding, “I think she’s avoiding Giles because of him helping Principal Wood to try and kill Spike? You know, on account of all the dead people in the past and him being the First Evil’s bitch.”

“What?” Dawn asked, shocked. She accidentally bashed her elbow against the kitchen counter. Gritting her teeth, she continued. “When? That can’t be true. Spike’s alright, isn’t he?” Her eyes leaped to the basement door.

“I think so,” Anya said. “I only know what Andrew told me. He overheard Buffy and Giles arguing last night, during one of his midnight bubble baths.” Private conversations were a thing of the past in this house. No secrets here, unless they involved failed murder plots. 

“This is so bad.”

“I mean, I guess. Buffy did try to kill me and that turned out okay. You don’t hear me complaining about it.” Anya awkwardly patted Dawn on the arm. Sympathy from Anya weirded Dawn out. “It’ll blow over soon, in a few weeks Buffy and Giles’ emotional issues will reset themselves like their on a badly written tv show.”   

“We don’t have weeks.”

“Right, time’s a luxury we don’t have.” Anya sighed. “I’m still getting used to the idea of time being finite again. Stupid mortality.” 

Dawn had to agree. Being a human could be the worst. “I just hope Buffy and Spike are okay.”

 

******

 

Buffy pulled some clean clothes out of the dryer. She loved the warmth and smell of them; she’d come to appreciate doing laundry. Last year, like with pretty much everything else, it was a grueling and relentless chore, a responsibility to perform. Now it was a break. It allowed her to breath and be alone, though she preferred being alone with Spike there for company. When they were together she stopped doubting this thing that was between them. The thing she couldn’t label. It was less confusing when he was present than when she was left with only her thoughts of him. 

She shoved another bundle of dirty clothes into the washer. To keep everything from spiraling out into complete laundry chaos, they had to do a minimum of five washes a day. If that schedule lapsed, recovery would be impossible, especially with some of the potentials’ questionable hygiene and nearly all of them simply scattering their worn clothes wherever they happened to fall.

Buffy had managed to avoid everyone so far today, leaving the house before anyone could ask her probing questions about yesterday. She’d jogged out to the beach, because it seemed like a constructive outlet for her anger. If she’d stored her destructive energy up, she was afraid in her next fight that once she started punching something she wouldn’t be able to stop until her fists were bloody and mangled. When she got to the beach, she sat down on a sand dune next to rock pool. She watched as the gray translucent shrimp scuttled and combed across the bottom of their rock pool until she’d calmed down.

When Buffy made it home, she made a beeline for the basement. She walked cautiously down the steps. Normally she'd almost bound down them while grumbling about what one of the girls had done now. Spike would respond with something droll. He’d sound sleepy, but she would hear the smile in his voice. When she reached the final step, if he was smoking he’d stub out his cigarette on the nearby brick wall — he didn’t want her breathing it in or getting the smell on the clothes she’d come to collect. He’d offer to switch the laundry from washer to dryer for her, and save her waiting around. Surely she must have better things to do?  If she had time, she’d always stay. They’d just sit together, chat, or occasionally spar.

Her favorite times in the basement were when Spike would smooth out his comforter as an invitation for her to join him — it was totally platonic, or as platonic as it had ever been with them. They’d just read. Spike with anything from the TV guide to an old bound poetry book, and she’d read something light and fictiony because she needed the escape.

The poetry had puzzled her —  nothing new about that. She’d noticed similar books in his old crypt during their affair but conversation hadn’t been a priority then. Buffy had given in and asked him about it last week. She’d always been curious about Spike, one way or another. There had always questions around him, like would he be the vampire to successfully kill her? And, _You again — did you swim through whiskey to get here? Seriously, you’re not welcome here, why do you keep coming back? You’re in love with me? Are you insane? Why can’t I stop using you and why does it feel so good? I actually did trust you because why else does it hurt so much?_

 

******

 

Buffy was sitting on Spike’s bed. They were side by side with their backs to the wall. Buffy flicked through a magazine, not really taking in anything. She kept stealing looks at Spike out the corner of her eyes. He was engrossed in an old poetry book. A level of engrossment that she thought he reserved only for — well, her.

“What’cha reading?” she asked.

“It’s nothing,” Spike said, tapping his fingers against the book’s spine, as if counting her heartbeat, quick but not thundering. “Some old poems. I like them is all. Studied them a bit when I was human.”

Why did he seems so defensive? “Well, I’ve not read that many poems. I took college class and really enjoyed it but I had to drop it.”

“After your mum?” 

“Yeah.” She shook off her sadness. “But yeah, I really liked the poems we did.”

The next night when she’d come down to see Spike, he wasn’t there. Instead, there was a slim book of poems by Carol Ann Duffy. He’d left it on top of a pile of neatly folded sheets. The front cover was stamped as property of Sunnydale High School — it was good that someone was using the library. It wasn’t stealing as long as she returned it, if they actually managed to stop this apocalypse.  

When she tried to bring up his gift, he seemed embarrassed. Shy Spike still took some getting used to. So she thanked him by painting his nails black. She’d grown fond of the look. 

“Want me to do yours, love?” Spike asked when his nail polish was set. “I know you do. Been grumbling about the cost and lack of time for a decent manicure.”

She presented her hands palm down to him. Spike gently took her left hand — in a courtly gesture, like he was going to place a soft kiss on the ridge of her knuckles. He didn’t. Instead, he delicately painted her nails. It was a good job.

“You want French tips too?” It would have sounded dirty from his lips a year ago. Still, she felt a charge from it — wicked non-wicked energy.

“Yes, please.” She beamed. “How do you know how to do them?”

“Drusilla,” he said. Well of course; that made sense. “She always liked them that way but didn’t have the attention span to do it herself. Got good at it after over a hundred years.”

Yep, after a hundred years of practice he’d gotten good at a lot of things — she was so not going there. “Were you the great fashion icon of the nineteenth century who invented the French tip,” she teased. “Or did Billy Idol retroactively steal all that glory from you too?”

He took up her right hand and started to apply the base coat.

“Cheeky bint.” He flashed her his teeth in a slow smile and gave a soft chuckle.

A strand of hair fell over her eyes. She tried to blow it away so as not to smudge her nails. Spike took pity on her and brushed it away. His thumb accidentally brushed against her cheek in a glancing caress. They both froze. The silence was awful.

“My favorite poem was Close,” Buffy blurted out and actually craved the silence back. Where were the Gentlemen when you actually needed them?

“Mine was Valentine,” Spike confessed, his eyes lighting up.

“Well, of course it is. Brings a whole new perspective to your blooming onion obsession.”

“My love has always been more onion _than a red rose or satin heart.”_ Spike raised an eyebrow, challenging her with a quote.

“And its _fierce kiss will stay on your lips._ ” Were they flirting with poetry? It was different from death threats and punches.

“Right…” he trailed off. 

It was clear something had passed between them; a seismic shift. They’d ended up on unsafe ground. She felt a blush creeping along her cheeks. It was a ridiculous reaction after everything that had passed between them.

Spike’s eyes didn’t meet hers again until the dryer’s loud obnoxious beep ended its current wash cycle.

 

******

 

Buffy threw some colored clothes into the wash and put the machine on its longest setting; it was in no way connected to her avoiding anyone. It was about tackling the grass stains on the girls’ things from them having trained in the backyard. Slaying related damage and dirt on clothes was her sworn enemy, and blood was the worst to get out. Spike was great with combat against those marks. She’d been set to throw one of her favorite blouses out when Spike stopped her. She’d been surprised when he returned it to her completely de-gored. He’d told her the trick was white vinegar and an amount of scrubbing where giving up halfway through would have been the rational option. She thought it best not to ask why he was so good at removing blood stains.

She’d asked him instead how it was possible to be such a cliche while being utterly surprising. He replied with some of his previous soulless swagger that he was a rebel. Buffy had missed that side of him. She had laughed and rolled her eyes, and he grinned back _._ He told her he couldn’t help with advice on washing whites because though he wore black for the aesthetics it was also for laundering logistics. Silly vampire; life would be less interesting without him around.

God, how close had she coming to losing him? What would she have done? Did Giles think she wouldn’t have mourned — that she’d be a bit tetchy but get back to the mission at hand? She couldn’t think about it. Giles had terrified her when she figured out his plan, and he’d hurt her so badly. Buffy had no idea how to begin to deal with it. She’d forgiven his past betrayals. At least on her eighteenth birthday when he’d almost gotten her killed he’d been remorseful. When he’d wanted them to consider sacrificing Dawn, Buffy had refused and deep down she’d trusted Giles not to pull a utilitarian move behind her back, but now she knew otherwise. His opportunity just hadn’t materialized that day. If it had, would he have murdered Dawn? Made that choice without Buffy’s knowledge? Just like last night.

The basement door opened, breaking through Buffy’s busy uninvited thoughts. Her heart sped up, but she remembered it was still daylight and the blanket Spike used when he was stupidly traveling during the day was thrown over the end of his bed. She told herself she was only anxious for him to be back because she wasn’t sure if Giles and Wood would try to murder him again.

Dawn walked down the stairs.

“I heard the washer.” Dawn nodded towards the machine as it rumbled away. “When did you get back?”

“About half an hour ago,” Buffy answered, lifting her eyes up from the sudsy tumbling of the wet clothes. 

“Wow,” Dawn said with an impressed grin. “Have to respect the sneaking in. Everyone still thinks you're out.”

Dawn scratched at her bandage; Buffy felt a wave of affection towards her sister but held back her desire to hug her. In Buffy’s current mood, she was afraid she might accidentally bruise Dawn's ribs from squeezing too hard.

“I’m all with the stealth,” Buffy said and grabbed a tangle of dry clothes from her laundry basket and sat beside Dawn on the basement steps.

“Right, it’s a slayer thing. Mom almost never caught you.”

“Back then it was always about getting passed you and mom,” Buffy haphazardly folded a shirt. “Whenever you caught me sneaking out or in you’d always go run and tell mom.”

“Not always,” Dawn huffed. She playfully shoved Buffy with her shoulder and took some paired socks from her. Dawn aimed the socks at the laundry basket and grumbled when she missed a shot. 

“What’s up?” Buffy asked, while Dawn retrieved the far-flung socks and put them in their rightful place.

“You tell me? Giles tried to have Spike killed? I mean we’ve all threatened to do it, even me, but actually going through with it is…” Dawn looked down at her sneakers. “Where is he now?”

“Giles?”

“Spike. Why didn’t he come back last night?”

“He needed some time by himself. But the First’s trigger’s stopped working on him, so he’s safe to be all off on his own.” Buffy put an arm around Dawn’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t know what I’d have done if…” The world without Spike seemed an impossibility. He’d been in it such a long time that he seemed vital to it.

“It must have been scary.”

“Yeah. You trust someone and end up with a knife in your back. How did Giles think I’d react?”

“That too, but you could have lost Spike,” Dawn said, with such understanding that it chilled Buffy. She was meant to be showing Dawn how good the world could be, but they’d ended back here. “I already lost him.” 

“Dawn, he still cares about you.”

“I know, but that summer I was closer to him than anyone else and then when he--.” Dawn closed her eyes and clenched her knuckles. “Is he even that Spike anymore, the one that hurt you? If he isn’t, then it’s wrong for me to be mad at him, but then he’s not my friend anymore and just some new soul-having stranger, right?” 

“It’s complicated. I mean unless you’re Giles and then it’s simple.” Buffy felt the stitching on a shirt sleeve give with her rough folding. “What if Spike doesn’t come back?” Buffy looked up at Dawn, feeling vulnerable as she let her concern show. “He offered to leave a few weeks ago, but I told him not to. But what if he decides it’s for my own good and just leaves?” 

“Buffy.” Dawn rubbed Buffy’s arm. “He can be really stupid, but he’s not that kind of stupid. Three things consistent with all versions of Spike: he’s Manic Panic’s best customer or biggest financial drain, he will not shut up about blooming onions, and he always comes back to you.”

“Even when I don't want him to.”

“Especially then.”

“I just wish this apocalypse was over.” Buffy sighed and then looked back at Dawn. “Not in the hell unleashed on earth way, though if it means getting my own bathroom back...” 

“Even if it doesn’t, I bet Anya knows someone renting out an en suite room in hell.” Dawn rubbed the bump on her head and winced.

“You okay?” 

“I’m fine. What’s a little head trauma when you’re living on a hellmouth? I mean it might explain Giles lately,” Dawn snarked. “While you were out, Willow called with some news which I’m not sure how you’re going to take.”

“Is she arranging to murder a loved one behind my back?” Loved one? It didn't not fit, so she didn't correct herself.

“Yeah, you got me.” Dawn held up her hands. “Mister Gordo is going to have a very bad ‘hiking accident’ where he plunges into a ravine. Act surprised when it happens.” Dawn smirked. She got to her feet and rocked on her heels. “She’s bringing back Faith and Wesley with her from LA.”

“Oh.” Buffy nodded numbly. She wasn’t sure how to feel about it, but she wanted to put Dawn at ease. “Well, don’t think telling me that’s going to make me forget all your pig-related death threats.”

“Fine, but you’ll regret not taking action when he decides to go Animal Farm on you.” Dawn got to her feet. She held out her hand to Buffy to pull her to her feet. “Come on, it's your house and you shouldn’t have to hide.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the title of this story is also the name of a Carol Ann Duffy collection of poems. If anyone is interested here are the two poems mentioned in the story: http://www.tusitala.org.uk/close-by-carol-ann-duffy-intimacy-lost-and-found/ and http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poems/valentine
> 
> Thank you OYB for all your help and putting up with my abuse of commas in general.


	3. Chapter 3

Spike’s head hurt and his mouth tasted like a trashed distillery, with a hint of his own blood added to the mix; he had a dim recollection of getting into a few brawls. He rolled his neck — bit sore from sleeping at a funny angle, or maybe it was from that huge Lasovic demon. Tough buggers. 

 

Cheesy commercial music filled Spike’s ears with a grating annoyance, followed by the rattling of snacks in a plastic bowl, interspersed by someone crunching down on a handful of them. He could smell dried cranberries and cashews, and under their sweet scent there was stone, earth and… Clem. He was safe then. 

 

Spike shifted his body into a more comfortable position and drifted back to sleep. He wasn’t sure how long he dozed off for, but he was rudely awakened by a high-pitched buzzing. It was important for some reason. He just couldn’t remember why. 

 

“What’s that?” Spike mumbled, his eyes still stubbornly closed.

 

“That would be your cellphone. And when did you get a phone?” Clem asked. “And why don’t I have your number? I’m always getting amusing texts I want to send to you.”

 

“It’s Buffy!” Spike’s eyes snapped open as he began frantically searching through his pockets. “And if it’s the same quality of stuff you send to my yahoo account then it’s a hard pass.” 

 

Spike found the phone. Dawn’s name was in large letters across the screen. Was the bit in danger and calling big sis for help? Or had something happened to Buffy? 

 

“Hello?” he answered, attempting to hide his anxiety. 

 

Buffy exhaled slowly, as if hearing his voice was enough to put her mind at ease. Had she been scared of Wood or Giles taking another shot at offing him? Or maybe that his drunken stupor had ended up with him passed out in the great outdoors and ended with him becoming a pile of dust? 

 

“Finally. You took your time answering,” she said without any bite to her words. “I thought you’d lost my phone.”

 

Buffy’s concern wasn’t about any life or death then, but a mundane panic. Before the soul, he would have resented her worries not centring around him. It would’ve been more proof that her feelings didn’t match his own. Now he was simply pleased not to be adding to her current list of burdens. It was a long list; saving his arse had been on it a few times.

 

“Yeah, I managed to keep a hold of your precious phone,” he yawned, stretching out in his chair. His mouth turned into a crooked grin. “At least, once I won it back in a poker game after losing it to a pair of twos.” 

 

“You did not.” She gave an almost silent chuckle. “Because, if you did that, you know I’d have to kill you.”

 

“Seems there’s a line forming for that. I’m a very unpopular bloke.”

 

“By my 89th death threat I thought you stopped taking me seriously. I’m all talk when it comes to you.”

 

“All talk?” He raised an eyebrow. 

 

“Yes, all-talk-Buffy, it’s what the kids are calling me. Some adult type people too. All soliloquy and no slayage,” she quipped, but he heard the strain in her voice. 

 

Maybe spending the night away hadn’t been his best decision after all. He’d left Buffy alone in the lion’s den. Left her alone to deal with those who’d betrayed her. Granted, he’d done the same to Drusilla once, but only literally. She’d broken into London Zoo with a curious hankering to sample lion’s blood. He’d been a fledgling and still had a soft spot for cats, even the bigger deadlier ones, and opted out. He should have gone home with Buffy.

 

“How’s Dawn?”

 

“Good. She’s tough,” she said with pride. “Though, I’m trying to dissuade her from becoming a pro-wrestler. She can take a hit but spandex not a good look and it’s been banned by the FDA — the Finicky Dawn Advocates. Not to be confused with the food and drug one.”

 

“Right bastards they are. Stopped me from adding Weetabix to my blood.”

 

“Gross.” 

 

He heard the familiar rumble of the washing machine in the background. Buffy shifted into a more comfortable position on what must have been his bed, and let out a yawn.

 

“Tired?”

 

“A little. Sleep was like,” her words dangled, “the thing I didn’t get enough of, so I could come up with a good metaphor for its lack. You?”

 

“Better. Missed you,” he admitted, without leaving an expectant pause. “Though not being woken up by marauding teenagers and Andrew filming his latest pilot helped.”

 

Did she miss him? The random call as she sat on his bed waiting for the laundry fit. He’d broken their routine. Routine? Poor word for the now charged atmosphere. They hadn’t even sodden done anything, ‘cept read a few poems and paint each others nails. Yeah, so his demon was playing it down a bit. But why had a few tame lines of love poetry and a stray caress ignited him the same way as fucking her had? It shouldn't have compared to him relentlessly thrusting his cock into her drenched pussy while ruthlessly grinding his thumb against her clit with his human teeth clamped down on her throat as she begged him to fuck her harder had. Did she feel the same connection? Or the spring-trapped sexual tension between them waiting to bite at every step? Or were those feelings his alone to bear?. God, what a novice he was at handling their new intimacy. 

 

“Where did you end up staying last night?” Buffy asked, obviously trying to break the sudden tension. It didn’t seem to help, if the uptick of her heartbeat was any indication. “I meant that in a completely non-checky-uppy way. You’re a free agent with certain needs and…” 

 

Did she think he’d shagged someone else? Did it upset her? Best not to think about it. It didn’t mean anything. Buffy’d been jealous before: his date for Xander and Anya’s not-a-wedding and then Anya. It had hurt her but it hadn't meant she wanted him. He decided not to call her out on it.

 

“Yeah, free now that the First’s stopped yanking my strings — not a peep from Spike the mindless killer.”

 

“Good,” she said. “I wanted to make sure you were safe. I mean safe, as in not hurt — not that others weren’t safe around you. So dumb waking you to…” She trailed off, heart rabbiting again. “Where are you?” she asked softly. 

 

“I’m at my old digs — Clem’s place now.” He rubbed his neck. “Don’t recall much on how I got here though.”

 

“I found you passed out on the floor at Willy’s!” Clem chimed in, not hiding that he was eavesdropping on their conversation. Spike had almost forgotten he was there. “Come to think of it, that’s how we first met.”

 

“Is it still comfy there?” Buffy teased— possibly… was she flirting with him? Did he — should he flirt back? He used to be good at this. It was just like putting his duster back on to return to the fight. 

 

“Not nearly as much as it used to be,” he said in a low voice. “You flirting with me, Summers?” He smirked but immediately felt self-conscious. Why had he drawn attention to it? Stupid bloody soul. It could go to hell. Unsuave git had to pipe up at the worst of times.

 

“Guess it’s the eldest one.” Clem shovelled a handful of nuts and dried fruit into his mouth. 

 

Spike glared.

 

Clem gave him a thumbs up before huddling back into his recliner and going back to watching  _ The Terminator  _ now that the ads had finished. Spike sprang to his feet, moving towards the crypt’s entrance. 

 

“Maybe,” Buffy replied, not giving anything away in her tone. “So, I know you're all with the space-having, but did you want to patrol later? Together, I mean.”

 

“Of course, would love to.” Spike felt himself smiling; a pleasant warmth from his soul filling his chest. She wanted him around. 

 

“Great,” she said, her voice light, but then she sighed. “So, Willow’s on her way back with Faith, which is the last thing I need.”

 

“Well, I’ll be back to yours by then. And I’ll have your back,” Spike promised. 

 

“And I’ll have yours. I’m all about the mutual back having,” Buffy said. “You know what I mean.”

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

“So,” Buffy said, the word dangling like she wanted to say more, “meet you at your old place in a few hours?”

 

“Perfect, see you then.” 

 

They disconnected. Spike stared at the phone’s screen until the light faded away. 

 

“Awww, young love,” Clem grinned, beaming at Spike. 

 

“I’m not young,” Spike groused, rolling his eyes and throwing himself back into his old tatty chair. “And she’s not in love with me.”

 

“Whatever you say, buddy,” Clem shrugged. His grin didn’t disappear. “And that pretty Enoch demon who keeps calling ‘to see how I’m doing’ just sees me as a friend.”

 

“Enoch demons eat their mates.”

 

“Oh.” Clem folded his arms and went back to watching his film. “My point’s still valid and you two have history.”

 

“There you go. History’s why there’s nothing between us. We’re friends,” Spike insisted as Clem’s forehead lifted in a motion that would have raised his eyebrows if he had any. “Let's just watch the movie.”

 

“I’m sorry, Spike. I didn't mean to push. Did you want to order a pizza? Might make you feel better,” Clem offered. “Order of spicy buffalo wings on the side, my treat?”

 

“I’m alright but you go on ahead.”

 

They sat watching the film in amicable silence as Arnold Schwarzenegger killed the second Sarah Connor and busted into the third one’s flat. The third Sarah was always going to be the tricky one, always out of reach. Spike got that.

 

“It’s better than  _ Twins _ ,” Clem said, grimacing, “but I prefer the sequel. This one’s the movie of bad eighties hairstyles.” Clem’s eyes shifted to Spike’s bleached hair. He smiled apologetically at him. “Bad hair. I didn’t say yours was bad. Your hair suits you.”

 

“I liked the 70s better, didn’t you?” Came a vaguely familiar voice.

 

Spike’s eyes snapped over to where the voice came from. He'd wondered when the First would be showing up again — been hoping it’d bugger off for a good long time. 

 

It was sat on the stone slab of a tomb as it played at being Nikki Wood. Her leather duster fanned out behind her. “Not that I got to experience the 80s. I did like the 60s though. Woodstock, of course.” She raised an eyebrow paired with a half smile. “Bet you didn’t know I was there too. Fourteen and still not called. Saw Hendrix on stage — the best die young. He was late — Monday morning set. You missed out.” She grinned generously, no doubt parsing out a real memory from the real woman. Fourteen-year-old Nikki was born a rebel, he figured — good sense of music; he knew she could dance. He wondered if he’d seen her there. 

 

“Thought I was rid of you?” 

 

“Yeah, you murder someone I guess you don’t expect them to show up a few decades later.” 

 

“What is it?” Clem waved his hands in front of Spike’s face to get his attention. “The First Evil or the voices in your head again?” 

 

“The First,” Spike said and threw a handful of snacks into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. The crunching was like bones breaking; the sound of her death. Not this her; this thing wasn't her. “Guess I got you to thank for bloody Wood and Giles coming after me. Him knowing my trigger and all,” Spike sneered. “Underestimated me.”

 

“You’re not as crafty as you think, bleach head.” She hopped down and moved slowly towards him. “And if you think for a second I’m done with your evil ass then you’re wrong.”

 

“You need to know a lost cause when you see one, pet.”

 

“Like Buffy does?” Nikki towered over his chair. He ignored the words; Buffy believed in him. “What do you think she’d have done if my baby had managed to do what I failed to? Doubt she’d even shed a tear.” 

 

Spike chuckled low. “You’re really stretching for a barb, aren’t you? There's nothing you can do to make me betray her. I’m not your man, not any more. Turned my back on evil. Everything I am is for her.”

 

Clem turned up the TV's volume with the remote; the other half of the conversation obviously wasn’t as fun to guess at this time. 

 

“I mean, I get you’re evil but talking through a film: new low. So why don’t you just piss off,” Spike said, flinging his arm out in the direction of telly. “We’ve got a killer time travelling robot to watch who's scarier than you.” 

 

“You’re not long for this world and neither’s she. I’m going to watch you be the death of her again. She’ll want it, too.” Nikki smiled and smoothed down her duster sleeves. “Just like the rest.” 

 

“Ta then, love.” He waved the First off with a mock salute before it winked out of existence. “Big overture for nothing but a jumped up spook.” He wondered why it had appeared to him as Nikki. The First mostly appeared as himself or Buffy; he figured because no one could hurt him like Buffy or scare him like the worst version of himself did. It’d never been someone he’d killed before. It must know that, despite his words to Wood, he felt remorse. But Spike couldn’t wallow in his guilt; there was too much at risk for such self-indulgences.

 

Spike clenched his fists and stalked over to the crypts humming fridge. “Need a beer. Want one too, mate?”

 

******

  
_ New York, May 1999 _

 

Spike was having one of his favourite dreams: Nikki Wood in a New York subway car dead by his bare hands. No mystery in it, just straight up murder. It began the same as always: they fought and traded blows. Her deft kicks delivered against denim, already torn up and roughed by razors blades. She swirled in familiar leather. It was all very simple, but it didn’t lack poetry.

 

They danced to the rhythm of shattered glass, the grasps of bodies protesting their pain and the blunt force of her fist hitting his face. It’d been perfection until he met another. She’d caught his eye figuratively and literally — though she tended to go for the nose not the eyes. Buffy redefined his definition of perfection.

 

Nikki pinned him to the train’s floor. All the power in her body was straining to keep his down when the carriage lights flickered out. Darkness engulfed them, except for the silvery flashes of passing trains;  _ like burning baby fishes _ . Was this the moment Dru kept seeing since she’d found him? Every line meant something with her. Was that why he won? For her.

 

He flipped Nikki onto her back. The subway’s power flared back and flooded the compartment with blinding light. Nikki was gone, replaced with  _ her _ . Buffy.

 

Spike’s hands were wrapped around entire width of her neck. He felt her fragile vertebrae under his fingertips and her prey-like pulse against his thumbs. One rough twist and his torment would be over. He had her. She was trapped between his fists and thighs. Why wasn’t he taking her? 

 

He traced his left index finger against her jaw bone and into her hair. He couldn’t stop himself; her was as soft and silky as he’d imagined it. It was right distracting in a fight. 

 

“You can’t kill me,” Buffy whispered, her eyelids fluttered open for the first time and made his fingers falter. “Countdown from 730 and still you won’t.”

 

“Not one for riddles, love,” he lied. “Least not now.”

 

“Poetry instead?” 

 

She shouldn’t know that weakness. He hated how it reminded him of William — the last links of his humanity he hadn’t managed to escape. 

 

Spike eased off on the constricting pressure of his legs around her hips and roughly jammed his knee against her cunt. He clutched the lapels of her leather jacket, pulling her closer. Her leg slid against his rapidly hardening cock.

 

“I can kill you,” he insisted, kissing the jagged brand the Master had left on her skin. His fangs itched and his brow wrinkled as his taste buds came alive, pressed against her throbbing throat. 

 

He bit down hard. Buffy’s blood flooded his mouth. He kept his teeth clamped over the wound, not wanting to drain her dry yet or spill a drop.

 

Spike’s practised fingers fumbled as he opened her belt; it was transgressive and not in the usual way of betraying one of William’s prissy Victorian sensibilities. It was the opposite. Not that his human counterpart would have the first clue what he was doing with a woman. Spike managed to steady the shaking of his hands as they lowered the metal teeth on her zipper. 

 

Buffy was wet, more than she’d ever been during their most vicious and destructive fights; he could taste it in the air under the curl of his tongue. Panting, he lifted his head. His eyes frantically moved from her mouth, which was shaped in a moan, to her dark, hot eyes. 

 

******

 

Spike woke up alone his hotel bed. His own blood coated his fangs. Only a dream. Bloody hell,  _ only _ ? He was a perverse freak, pathetic really, but definitely past caring. Why deny it right now **?** He roughly pumped his dick in his fist. His back arched off the bed as he came hard. He moaned, stifling her name between clenched teeth, but he couldn’t stop her invading his thoughts. 

 

He grabbed a box of tissues and pushed the slayer out of his mind. He could keep her at bay while he was awake and he wasn’t painfully hard. That’s where he’d drawn the line; Drusilla hadn’t agreed. She could read his mind, no matter how deeply he tried to bury himself in denial.

 

Buffy had slowly seeped into his system from the first moment he’d clapped eyes on her, like gradually being poisoned by arsenic. You realised too late that you were well and truly fucked. Made sense in a sick kind of way. Spike always had a thing for slayers, so in the beginning he’d chalked it up to that. What had happened to make it more? Was it the first time she flipped her hair at him paired with a saucy quip? The vivid bruise on his neck she left from the hard press of her thumb? Her cunning when improvising weapons? The mutual passion for the dance between them? 

 

It was all of it.

 

Spike loved Drusilla, always would, but bloody hell he’d noticed the slayer from day one. Wasn’t even like Buffy was the first slayer he’d thought was hot. The difference was he’d never hid such fancies from Drusilla before. He told her everything. They’d merrily gone off giggling into the night, sharing their darkest desires, theirs hands all over one another. But he’d kept Buffy for himself. Then Dru had bloody thrown him aside for Angelus, like the bad old days. Spike of course forgave her and took her away from Sunnydale. It should have put an end to that. But thoughts of the slayer still haunted him across the border to South America. Drusilla was livid the whole journey — his refusal to be contrite over clubbing Angelus with a crowbar probably didn’t help.

 

Drusilla relented, eventually. She even allowed him back in their bed, at Miss Edith’s behest, but then the sodding dreams started. Different scenarios but always Buffy bloody Summers.

 

The first one happened when Dru lay beside him. He’d woken up with Dru‘s hand wrapped around his prick, nails clamped on his left nipple and a seductive smile on her lips. None of that registered before he was fucking her. It wasn’t about _her_. He came harder than he could ever remember having before. Drusilla froze underneath him, unsatisfied. She scratched his face up with her manicured nails. Blood ran into his eyes, followed by dust and rubble from the ruined wall Dru had thrown him through. 

 

Brushing off the debris, he stumbled back to her side. She was wailing and he hated himself. He couldn’t get her to settle down, so he’d left her alone and stalked out into the night. When he returned, she was sleeping. They didn’t speak about what happened, but she knew it was about the slayer. He wanted to defend himself: he’d gotten off once thinking about another bird who he wasn’t ever going to see again. Or if he did, he was going to kill her. But Drusilla started carrying on with other demons — a chaos demon even. Then one night she didn’t come back. And it was his fault.

 

He spent a few months searching South America for her but it was damned near impossible to get the jump on a psychic who didn’t want to be found. And so he’d found his way back to New York after a quick detour to Sunnydale. New York was his city. He’d been the real deal — on the cutting edge of the punk counterculture movement and the slayer of slayers; the music had been raw and the girl was in the morgue. As soon as the sun went down, he’d remind the world who he was.

 

He’d visit his old hunting grounds: Central Park, the Broadway Line, CBGB’s, and the Rose Reading Room — which he’d been kicked out of in the 70s. He hadn’t even hurt anyone. All he’d done was recited Ginsberg’s  _ America _ — none of the librarians would tell him why their libraries were full of tears. 

 

Any place was better than being stuck in his hotel room. He was sick to his stomach with it. He’d arrived in town with dawn on his heels, bursting through the first open door he saw which had led to a dingy lobby. The room was cheap. It had a dried blood and gunpowder smell to it — a newly painted wall couldn’t fool his senses. The ambience reminded Spike of his empty stomach and the type of loneliness that would lead one to blowing their brains out on the hovel-come-hotel wall. He could see himself having ended up the same if he’d stayed human, though he guessed he’d gone out on suicide by vampire bite. He’d go out in a fight when death caught up with him again. It would probably be Buffy; she’d be the second woman to kill him. 

 

So yeah, he was lonely. Not that he blamed Dru for ditching him — well, as long as he was sober. God, he wished he was drunk — this place didn't even a have a mini bar to raid. He should just go nick some ethanol from a hospital or a lab. That’d do the job. But best to avoid going on a complete bender, since the last one had led him back to Sunnydale. 

 

Things had felt clearer then; he’d left Sunnydale determined to get Drusilla back. It was only one dream then. A fluke. He hated the slayer. He would have killed her too but Angel was back to hanging around her like a lovesick puppy and Spike didn’t like his odds against the two of them. God, he should have realised what was going on when Buffy had him by the throat, holding him flat across her kitchen counter with her pelvis pushed against his. He’d wanted to fuck her; he wanted to drain her dry. It just needed to stop.


End file.
